Vance glanced about him.
“Not a pretty sight—eh, what? And there on the davenport reclined the lady’s strangled body. That corpse was Skeel’s dominant horror. He staggered to the table to look at it, and steadied himself with his right hand—that’s how you got your fingerprints, Sergeant. Then the realization of his own position suddenly smote him. Here he was alone with a murdered person. He was known to have been intimate with the lady; and he was a burglar with a record. Who would believe that he was innocent? And though he had probably recognized the man who had negotiated the business, he was in no position to tell his story. Everything was against him—his sneaking in, his presence in the house at half past nine, his relations with the girl, his profession, his reputation. He hadn’t a chance in the world. … I say, Markham, would you have credited his tale?”
“Never mind that,” retorted Markham. “Go on with your theory.” He and Heath had been listening with rapt interest.
“My theory from this point on,” resumed Vance, “is what you might term self-developing. It proceeds on its own inertia, so to speak.—Skeel was confronted by the urgent problem of getting away and covering up his tracks. His mind in this emergency became keen and highly active: his life was forfeit if he didn’t succeed. He began to think furiously. He could have left by the side door at once without being seen; but then, the door would have been found unbolted. And this fact, taken in connection with his earlier visit that night, would have suggested his manner of unbolting the door. … No, that method of escape wouldn’t do—decidedly it wouldn’t do. He knew he was likely, in any event, to be suspected of the murder, in view of his shady association with the lady and his general character. Motive, place, opportunity, time, means, conduct, and his own record—all were against him. Either he must cover up his tracks, don’t y’ know, or else his career as a Lothario was at an end. A sweet dilemma! He realized, of course, that if he could get out and leave that side door bolted on the inside, he’d be comparatively safe. No one could then explain how he had come in or gone out. It would establish his only possible alibi—a negative one, to be sure; but, with a good lawyer, he could probably make it hold. Doubtless he searched for other means of escape, but found himself confronted with obstacles on every hand. The side door was his only hope. How could it be worked?”
Vance rose and yawned.
“That’s my caressin’ theory. Skeel was caught in a trap, and with his shrewd, tricky brain he figured his way out. He may have roamed up and down these two rooms for hours before he hit on his plan; and it’s not unlikely that he appealed to the Deity with an occasional ‘Oh, my God!’ As for his using the tweezers, I’m inclined to think the mechanism of the idea came to him almost immediately.—Y’ know, Sergeant, this locking of a door on the inside is an old trick. There are any number of recorded cases of it in the criminal literature of Europe. Indeed, in Professor Hans Gross’s handbook of criminology there’s a whole chapter on the devices used by burglars for illegal entries and exits.15 But all such devices have had to do with the locking—not the bolting—of doors. The principle, of course, is the same, but the technic is different. To lock a door on the inside, a needle, or strong slender pin, is inserted through the bow of the key, and pulled downward with a string. But on the side door of this house there is no lock and key; nor is there a bow in the bolt-handle.—Now, the resourceful Skeel, while pacing nervously about, looking for something that might offer a suggestion, probably espied the tweezers on the lady’s dressing-table—no lady nowadays is without these little eyebrow-pluckers, don’t y’ know—and immediately his problem was solved. It remained only to test the device. Before departing, however, he chiselled open the jewel-case which the other chap had merely dinted, and found the solitaire diamond ring that he later attempted to pawn. Then he erased, as he thought, all his fingerprints, forgetting to wipe off the inside doorknob of the closet, and overlooking the hand-mark on the table. After that, he let himself out quietly, and rebolted the side door the same as I did, stuffing the tweezers in his waistcoat pocket and forgetting them.”
Heath nodded his head oracularly.
“A crook, no matter how clever he is, always overlooks something.”
“Why single out crooks for your criticism, Sergeant?” asked Vance lazily. “Do you know of anybody in this imperfect world who doesn’t always overlook something?” He gave Heath a benignant smile. “Even the police, don’t y’ know, overlooked the tweezers.”
Heath grunted. His cigar had gone out, and he relighted it slowly and thoroughly.
“What do you think, Mr. Markham?”
“The situation doesn’t become much clearer,” was Markham’s gloomy comment.
“My theory isn’t exactly a blindin’ illumination,” said Vance. “Yet I wouldn’t say that it left things in pristine darkness. There are certain inferences to be drawn from my vagaries. To wit: Skeel either knew or recognized the murderer; and once he had made good his escape from the apartment and had regained a modicum of self-confidence, he undoubtedly blackmailed his homicidal confrère. His death was merely another manifestation of our inconnu’s bent
